The Way
by wildskysong
Summary: They keep telling Chuck that his partner is dead.  Chuck knows they're lying; Teddy's too clever to die.  ONE-SHOT.


**A Shutter Island fic that I recently recovered. :D Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Shutter Island, but oh God I want too. **

**EDIT AUGUST 8, 2010: It has come to my attention that the asterisks dividing up the story no longer work on FFN, so I have installed linebreaks. I hope it's better now!**

* * *

I have become what I have known;

If you are the way,

Then who am I?

-_Mahmud Kianush_

* * *

"_How're ya doing, Chuck?" Teddy says, leaning up against the wall, eyes closed. He 's so much more relaxed these days. That's good news. Maybe they would finally get off this rock._

"_Can't complain." Chuck smiles, but he fidgets. Teddy notices, like he always does._

"_Take it easy, Chuck. We got 'em fooled." _

_He relaxes and smiles again. "Yeah, we do, don't we, boss?"_

* * *

Chuck sits and waits in his cell in Ward A. He's finally out of Ward C—that's good. It's too loud in there, too damp. Teddy doesn't seem to mind it all that much, but then, Teddy can come and go, because they think he's dead.

They keep telling Chuck that his partner is dead. Chuck knows they're lying, because Teddy's always hanging around, plotting, planning, trying to get them off the rock and expose the sick bastards for the monsters they are. He even went to the mainland, a few days ago, to get word to the US Marshals. Any day now they'd storm Shutter Island, and Chuck can go home.

He misses his girl. He misses the mainland. Hell, he even misses the stink of Boston, that smell of dead fish that Teddy's so fond of.

"You there, boss?" He calls. The orderlies don't come back around for another five minutes (he memorized the schedule), so he can talk here uninterrupted.

"Yeah, I'm here, Chuck." Teddy's face peers in the door. He looks pretty bad. His face is pale and thin, his bright eyes dulled. They've been on the island for too long; it's starting to show. "How're ya doing?" He always asks that question, like he's worried that his partner will break or something.

Not likely, though Chuck appreciates the concern. "Okay." He licks his lips. "Kinda lonely."

Teddy's eyes soften. "Missin' your girl?"

"Yeah."

Teddy's hand squeezes his shoulder. "I know, Chuck, but the Marshals will be here soon. You just sit tight, okay? We're getting out of here."

Chuck smiles up at his partner trustingly. "I know, boss. I know."

* * *

Every morning, at precisely eight o' clock, Dr. Cawley comes in and sits down with a pack of cards and a pack of cigarettes. He looks pretty bad too—his skin seems to be falling from his bones and his eyes have dulled considerably. He looks like a beaten man, though Chuck doesn't know why.

There was that one time, a couple months ago, when there weren't any new patients and Cawley looked like he was about to die, but there was a sudden influx recently, so obviously business isn't bad or anything.

Cawley's private miseries don't really affect Chuck, though, so he shrugs it off and focuses on the cards, winning most of the cigarettes by nine.

"Good-bye, Dr. Cawley." Chuck says, and waves.

Cawley always hesitates by the door, his (shaking) hands on the doorknob. "Good-bye, Marshall Aule."

He always comes back, though, still beaten, to lose at cards, and Chuck doesn't complain. He likes the smokes.

"You should stop smoking those cigarettes." Teddy warns him, one day. Chuck's sitting by his window, watching the other _patients_ outside. "And you should stop playing cards with Cawley."

Chuck blinks at his partner. "Why, boss? It gives me something to do."

Teddy snorts, spits on the ground. "You're gonna kill yourself if you keep smoking those." He warns.

"Since when have you stopped smoking?" Chuck demands.

Teddy rolls his eyes, fishes around in his pocket. "I didn't say you couldn't smoke, Chuck. Just not _his_ cigarettes."

Chuck takes a cigarette from his partner. It tastes heavy on his tongue, and he puffs out smoke. "What's wrong with Cawley's cigarettes? They ain't drugged or anything; he smokes them all the time."

Teddy sighs and rubs his face. "You want something to do?" He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a little book of puzzles. "Here. They're good for your brain."

Chuck laughs. "I'm not a puzzler, boss. That's you."

Teddy smiles, and it's tainted with sorrow. "Yeah, that's me, isn't it?"

* * *

One morning, Cawley doesn't come, and Chuck doesn't get his cigarettes. Which makes him incredibly bored. For a few hours, he simply lies flat on his back, thinking.

He's been a "patient" (prisoner) at Aschecliff for a while now. He's lost count, and every time he wants to ask Teddy, it slips his mind.

Teddy was "killed" by the Warden, and that caused Chuck to "snap." The doctors at the institution had both Marshals under their thumbs, but Teddy, the clever bastard, escaped, faked his own death, and promised Chuck that he'd get them out of there.

And he will, eventually. Chuck trusts Teddy, and Teddy trusts Chuck.

They'll get off the island soon, Chuck knows it. He just has to act crazy for a little while longer.

The sun says that it's past noon, and Cawley still hasn't come. Chuck is starting to shake, but only slightly. That can't be good. He slurps down some water, and the shaking subsides a little.

"Teddy?" He calls out hopefully. No answer. Teddy doesn't come during the day, though. Only in the night, when the darkness can hide his thin frame and he can vanish, like smoke.

The shakes come back, and Chuck realizes that he's bored. He takes out Teddy's puzzle book and spends the next three hours glaring at it, wondering how in the name of God Teddy did these things, and finally threw it against the wall in disgust.

He is still bored and shaking, and he glares at the ceiling and counts the spidery cracks.

* * *

Cawley comes in the next morning and he looks even more haggard than usual.

Chuck eyes him warily, and thinks about Teddy.

"_Stop smoking those cigarettes, Chuck." _

He plays an excellent game though; a pretty little royal flush that wins him half the pack.

His (shaking) hand hesitates as he considers the cigarette. Cawley's eyes narrow.

_They'll kill you, Chuck! _

Chuck lights the cigarette and breathes in. The taste is slightly sweet, but oh it tastes so good.

And the shaking stops.

* * *

That night, Chuck dreams.

Teddy leans against a gate; behind him, Chuck can see a pretty white gazebo and a tranquil lake. A pretty young woman, Dolores, probably, is singing by the lake. She's braiding a little girl's hair. Two boys run around and around, laughing.

"Didn't know you had kids, boss." Chuck comments, watching Teddy's face and the kids.

"No." Teddy looks at Chuck oddly. "There aren't any Daniels kids."

"No? That's a shame." Chuck says cheerfully. "You'd be a good dad."

Teddy blinks, and looks longingly back at the kids playing with the woman. "I'm not so sure about that."

Chuck smiles and pats his shoulder. "I know you would." He says seriously. "Go in there and you'll see. You'll be a great father."

"I can't go in there." Teddy says, and his blue eyes are impossibly sad.

"Why not?"

"Waiting for you."

Chuck blinks and tilts his head. "Maybe you spent too much time on the island, boss. I'm right here."

Teddy smiles, and the lake behind him fades away. "Are you?"

And Teddy fades away too. _Are you? _And then there's water everywhere, and someone's screaming, and Chuck can't breathe—!

* * *

Chuck wakes up and spends the rest of the night heaving into his battered toilet, and he doesn't know why.

Dr. Cawley comes in the next day, and the cigarette he hands Chuck before the game starts is almost like a peace offering.

_Don't smoke that, Chuck._

_Ah, shut up, boss. _

And Teddy's voice does.

* * *

"You're going to die here, you know." Chuck is dreaming again. This time he's standing in the courtyard at the hospital. Teddy's there, too, and he's relaxed.

"Die here?" Chuck smiles, lights a cigarette. "I thought you were gonna get me out, boss."

Teddy looks sideways at his partner. "How can I do that, Chuck? I'm dead."

* * *

"Teddy Daniels is dead." Cawley says, and he rubs his face tiredly. "He's dead, Lestor, give it up! Bury him! "

"Teddy's not dead, bastard." The words slip out before Chuck can stop them. "And my name's _Chuck. _Who the fuck is Lestor?"

Cawley buries his face in his hands and Chuck gets the impression that he's sobbing.

* * *

"You keep smoking those fucking cigarettes, Chuck, and you're gonna regret it." Teddy says. He leans against the wall and he looks worse than ever. "You gotta stop, Chuck. It's the only way to save yourself."

Chuck glares at his partner, irrationally angry. "I don't wanna stop, Ted. And _you're _supposed to save me! Where are the Marshals, Ted? Where are they?"

Teddy closes his eyes, and he looks defeated, every inch the soldier who stood in front of the piles of bodies at Dachau, trying to remember what it felt like to breathe. "Stop smoking those cigarettes, Chuck." He repeats. "It's the only way to save yourself."

And then he slips out and away.

"You win again." Cawley murmurs, and he doesn't meet Chuck's eyes. He doesn't smoke a cigarette, either, like he usually does. He pushes the pile towards Chuck.

The Marshal eyes them, and he hears Teddy.

_Don'!_

"Yeah." Says Chuck. "I win." And he sits a cigarette in his mouth as Cawley leaves.

But he doesn't light it.

* * *

He wishes he had lit that cigarette. He wishes he hadn't flushed the lot of them down the toilet. He wishes that Teddy was here.

But no, Teddy's gone, isn't he, Chuck? He left, he's gone, he ain't comin' back. Maybe they caught him?

No, no that can't be right. No one catches Teddy Daniels. He's too clever.

But Chuck feels like he's on fire and Teddy's not there. Why isn't he there?

_He's dead. _

_No!_

_Yes. _

_You're wrong! _And Chuck burns and shakes and calls out for Teddy. He doesn't come.

* * *

"You stopped smoking." There's approval in Teddy's voice. "Good for you." They're outside again, leaning against the gate. Dolores and the kids who aren't Teddy's laugh in the background.

"It hurts, boss." Chuck says, and the words slip and splash onto the grass.

Teddy's eyes are soft. "I know, partner. I know. It'll stop, and then…"

"Then what?" Speaking is an effort. _Dreaming_ is an effort.

Teddy cants his head, considering. "Then you'll know." He says, and he's gone.

* * *

It hurts so bad he wants to die, but Chuck clings to life. Teddy told him to go on. Teddy said it would stop, eventually.

"He's going into withdrawal." That's Cawley's voice, and it's more tired than ever before.

"What should we do?" An orderly. Trey?

There is a pause. "Let him work through it. Clarity could be just what Lestor needs."

_I'm Chuck! _He cries. But no one hears him. Not even Teddy.

He sleeps.

* * *

When Chuck wakes up, he's tired and sore, but he's _awake_. He's… He's… scared. He's in Ward A. Why is he in Ward A? What happened?

He looks at his hands. They shake. Cawley is there, watching him. He looks sad. Why?

"You've just been through withdrawal." The doctor says. "You need to sleep. Go to sleep, Lestor."

"My name is…" He starts, but he's gone again. _My name is…?_

_Chuck?_

* * *

"You need to let me go." Teddy stands by the gate. There is no more laughter behind him. This Teddy doesn't look like Teddy at all, and it scares Chuck.

This Teddy is too thin, with hollow, dim eyes. This Teddy has gaunt cheekbones, and this Teddy wears dark blue-purple bruises under his eyes and carries agony on his shoulders. This Teddy is broken.

"Ted?" Chuck says, uncertainly.

A sad smile. "You don't remember me, Doc?"

"_You don't remember me, Andrew?"_

Chuck staggers back. "Boss?"

The broken Teddy looks at him. "No."

* * *

"Hold him!" Cawley's voice, pitched, panicked. Cawley _never _panics, not ever. He's terrified.

Hands push him down; he kicks, lashes out. But he's not a fighter. No, he's not a fighter. And the hands are sososo heavy and his eyes roll, and then—

He sleeps.

* * *

Teddy watches him with his broken eyes and his (shaking) hands are curled into fists.

"Boss?" He says, uncertainly.

"No."

_My name is Andrew Laeddis. I killed my wife in the spring of '52. _

The memory, heavy with pain and sadness and grief, and the man's eyes are so sad, so searingly blue, and he cares for this man, wants to protect this man, and—

His breath hitches: he knows this man. He does, he does, and it breaks his heart. He swallows.

"Andrew?

And Andrew Laeddis meets his eyes. "Hey, Doc." There's a spark in his eyes now. "Hate to tell you this, but you look like shit."

But it's too much, because this man—this not-Teddy—is dead. He's been dead. Chuck remembers. He remembers walking into the cell, a smile plastered to his face. He remembers the body, still and cold, and the broken eyes misted over. Andrew died, in the winter of '56.

And Chuck—

Chuck never existed, did he? Chuck was Andrew's creation, Andrew's defense mechanism. And Andrew died. So Chuck was—?

(Chuck was Lestor Sheehan, Andrew's primary, and Andrew's killer.)

"Chuck is your defense mechanism." Andrew says gently. "You—being the soft-hearted idiot you are—felt guilty. You couldn't take it."

"Because it's my _fault._" Not-Chuck whispers, and he feels like someone is shoving screws in his chest. "I let them kill you, cut out your brain. I couldn't save you from yourself."

Andrew lays his hands on Sheehan. "I'd say that it wasn't your fault, but that won't work for you, will it? No? Fine. I forgive you." He says. "Look at me, Doc. I. Forgive. You."

And Sheehan's face crumples like paper.

"How can you?"

"You idiot." Andrew murmurs. He looks behind him, at the lake. Dolores is there, and so are the children. They're watching, and waiting.

They want Andrew to come home.

"How can you?" Sheehan repeats, balling his (shaking) hands into fists.

Andrew tilts his head. "How can I not? You're my friend."

Sheehan can't breathe. He can't think. He wants to scream, but he can't, because it's time to move on. He can see it in Andrew's bruised eyes.

_Let me go. _They say.

"Okay." Sheehan says, and it hurts like a bullet through the chest, but Andrew smiles, and the broken man falls away.

"See?" He says, and his eyes are glowing now, and he's stronger, younger, every inch the sturdy man who went to war. His (shaking) hand rests on the gate. "Now you know." And Andrew pushes the gate open and walks inside the yard.

As the world fades, Sheehan sees his friend, and he's kissing his Rachel's face and he's hugging his wife and his boys.

They're at peace.

* * *

Sheehan wakes up crying, but he's not sad.

Cawley, in his corner, raises his head, and his too-thin face dares to look hopeful. "What is your name?" He asks.

Sheehan breathes, in out, and looks into his (shaking) hands. He smiles. "My name is Lestor Sheehan."

* * *

When he walks up to the gate, Andrew is waiting for him on the other side. A little girl stands beside him, peering at Sheehan curiously.

"You waited for me." Sheehan says, and reaches out. The gate swings open, and Andrew's eyes sparkle.

"Sure, Doc. But how do you know I'm not just a hallucination?"

Lestor Sheehan snorts. "If this is a hallucination, I don't mind being crazy."

Andrew smiles, and his daughter laughs. "Welcome home, partner."

* * *

It is not your eyes,

That show me the way,

But a sudden note from your heart.

_-Mahmud Kianush_


End file.
